Lookalikes
by Shostakovich
Summary: Inspired by of Cairn's oneshot. Aminta de Chagny started a search for Erik after her mother screams his name when a chandelier falls.
1. Troublemaking, and Questions

Aminta groaned into her pillow; she was being awakened at a ridiculous hour for the third week straight. What was wrong with waking when you liked? Aminta had never thought about getting enough sleep before, but she now felt her early awakening was like the plague.

The maid knocked on her door again before entering, startled to see Aminta glaring at her.

"'Excuse me, please_, madamoiselle,_" the maid said. She came in carefully.

"Go away, Marie," Aminta said, rather rudely. She blew some hair away from her face and glowered at the maid Marie, who truthfully was only a few months older than Aminta herself.

"I'm sorry, madamoiselle, but your _grand-mère_ is coming for an early lunch. Your mama and papa are insistent that you are presentable and waiting for her." Marie pulled open the heavy drapes; the sun streamed into Aminta's eyes, and she howled at the sting of the brightness.

"Away, away! I am awake!"

Marie hid a smile under her hand as Aminta pulled the mass of covers over her head. The maid carefully approached the bed and pried the blankets and sheets out of Aminta's firm grip; strong-fingered Aminta might be, but Marie had worked long enough to know how to successfully pry the covers from her hands.

"Up, madamoiselle, or you will not be given dinner, and we know you adore the veal," Marie said.

Aminta groaned again and sat up, squinting in the light. "What am I wearing?"

"The blue and cream colored dress, that your _grand-mère_ ordered for you."

Aminta arranged her dark curls on one side of her face to block the sun as she sat in her bed. "And they will murder me, should I get dust on it?"

"Mais oui, madamoiselle."

Aminta sighed, and slid out of bed, raising her arms expectantly. "Help me out of this, then," she said of her white nightgown. "And take as long as possible."

----

Aminta de Chagny was eighteen, or possibly eight, and an utter disgrace as far as her parents and grandparents were concerned. She was friendless and meddling; a trouble maker and the proud possessor of an attitude that did not sit well with society. She enjoyed building things, taking things apart, and playing with things assembled before she could get to it.

Naturally, she was often reprimanded for her curiosity about technology. Neither Aminta's mother nor father had much pity for her pastimes. Her father was a comte, and her mother a former prima donna at the Palais Garnier.

Of course, according to Aminta's grand-mère, the comtess de Chagny, they were "my pitiful son and his opera wench". Grandmaman, as Aminta was forced to call her father's mother, was the perfect vision of nobility. She had a coolly snobbish manner, hated anything less than perfect, and despised Aminta's 'tinkering'.

As Aminta slouched on a plush couch with her arms crossed, she smirked lightly as she recalled a rather delightful prank she had pulled. She had been just seven, and she had removed a door from its hinges while visiting her grand-mère who, aside from being snobby, was particularly nasty to Aminta. At first glance, the door looked perfectly harmless; however, when Grandmaman was opening the door, it crashed onto the floor in front of her. Grandmaman had shrieked and fainted dead on the floor, leaving Aminta with a wonderful mood and no dinner.

Now, her Grandmaman was eleven years older, and about five times meaner. Aminta was about five times craftier, and neither she nor her grandmother had gotten any closer.

To Grandmaman, Aminta was an object to marry off to the richest and most prominent young man Paris had to offer.

To Aminta, Grandmaman was a great inconvenience who would be better off in the grave.

Granted, Grandmaman had answered some of Aminta's most puzzling questions, where even her parents refused to speak a word.

So Aminta put up with her, not like she had much choice to begin with, and life went on.

---

When Aminta was eight, she was at the height of her trouble-making career. Eight had been the perfect age when she was still adorable enough to worm her way out of serious punishment, and yet she was smart enough to do things she hadn't been able to do at seven.

Year eight was also the time of Aminta's grandest discovery, and the thickest mystery she'd ever stumbled upon. Since then, names had never quite meant the same thing.

Aminta had been 'tinkering' with the suspension system in her grand-mère's attic for the small, intricate chandelier in the foyer of one of her homes. She had been seeing how many knots it took to hold the chandelier up. Dozens of replacements surrounded her. After a while, Aminta had apparently undone one knot too many, for the chandelier fell to the ground. It hit the floor, and the crash perfectly resounded with the powerful scream of Aminta's mother.

"ERIK!"

Upon uttering that one life-changing word, the woman had folded into herself upon the floor, just out of the range of the broken glass, shaking and mumbling with horror as she stared at the fallen contraption.

Aminta had heard only bits and pieces of her father comforting her distressed mother through the new hole in the ceiling; the dust make her squint to see her father rush to her mother's side and hold her in his arms.

"He is gone, Christine! He is not here. Hush, my love, hush. Do not worry." His voice was soothing, but Christine de Chagny was not so easily comforted.

"The phantom- Erik- The opera... my Angel of Music... Oh, Raoul!" Her sobs were loud, but louder still were the screeches of Grandmaman at the destruction of her chandelier.

"That little scoundrel! Reenacting the disaster! Does she have no heart! Raoul, I expect her to pay dearly for this," she ordered, her hand fluttering over her heart and eyes seeking out Aminta through the hole in the ceiling.

Aminta had pulled away quickly then, but mulled for a while about who "Erik" was, and what he had to with with being the phantom, or an angel of music, or an opera person. Aminta had puzzled for a whole twenty-four hours (dinner not included) before finally cornering her still-jumpy mother.

"Maman..."

"Aminta!" Christine de Chagny had spun quickly, eyes wide. "Please, do not sneak up like that."

"I wasn't sneaking, Maman, but I have a question."

"Yes, what is it, Aminta?"

Aminta pulled her best cute, inquisitive face. "What was the disaster, Momma?"

At that, Christine had gone from slightly pale to a ghostly shade of white. "Aminta, you would do well not to dwell on such topics. You waste your time. No more questions; they are not appreciated."

"But maman-"

"No more, Aminta! I am firm on this; if you obey one thing, ask me no more questions. Please, _ma cherie_, stop this."

Just then, a maid had come in to get Aminta ready for bed. Aminta could hardly get out a 'bon nuit' before she was ejected into the hall, where her Grandmaman scowled at her before brushing off to the master bedroom.

"Wait, Grandmaman!" Aminta said, surprising herself. The old woman turned quickly on the spot, raising an eyebrow and making Aminta feel like a fool. "Who is the phantom at the opera?"

Her grand-mère's scowl had deepened even farther, but she had beckoned Aminta closer. "If only you will desist this useless questioning that distresses my son and daughter-in-law," she threatened. Aminta nodded, her eyes wide. Grandmaman had sighed. "The Opera Populaire, in Paris, is said to be haunted by some spirit. Apparently, he wears evening clothes and a mask." She stiffened slightly, her face pinching unpleasantly. "When your mother was a singer there, several murders took place, as well as the chandelier falling, which killed one person."

"How can a ghost kill people? Aren't they corporeal? And how were the people killed?" Aminta's mind was abuzz with questions.

The comtess stiffened dramatically and refused to speak of it any more. "No proper young lady would dream of asking such foolish, bloodthirsty questions! I quite wonder if you did not hope to kill someone with your foolishness yesterday, with that horrid trick."

Aminta cast her eyes down, hands twitching slowly into fists.

"Bed, _maintenant_," Grandmaman had declared, and Aminta was ushered away by a maid.

---

Now eighteen, Aminta found herself still being ushered around by maids, often at the beck and call of her grand-mère. And she had learned precious little of the phantom at the opera or Erik since she had accidentally reenacted The Disaster. The mystery still haunted her, so after a tense, uncomfortable tea time with her parents and her grand-mère (with conversation that mainly featured Aminta's faults as a young lady), Aminta had escaped to the second floor while her parents and Grandmaman discussed business.

She sat slouched in a chair facing a lit fireplace in her mother's little room, the only room, in fact, where her father rarely came. Her mother loved the intimacy of the small room and filled it with art; leaving the opera house had not changed her artistic soul. The walls were a soft cream color, and the fireplace crackled merrily, much to Aminta's annoyance. The sound was worse than nails on a chalkboard, or perhaps Grandmaman's screeching.

The thought brought a scowl to Aminta's lips as the door opened and her mother paused, surprised to see Aminta there. It had grown dark, and the woman sat in a chair across a small round table from her daughter.

Christine de Chagny sighed deeply and closed her eyes; Aminta could tell she'd had some of their fine wine before coming up, for her eyes had become particularly bright and her smile was foggy.

Aminta slumped, scowled, and waited, kicking her foot against the chair leg. A beat formed, and Aminta hummed absentmindedly.

Her mother stirred, and her eyes opened and shone almost yellow in the firelight.

"Aminta," she whispered, as if in a trance. "His face- oh, how it haunts me, Aminta! Stop searching for it. Please, my daughter, my Aminta, please stop." A tear wound its way down Christine's perfect cheek; she shuddered at some unseen vision. "Once you have seen him, you can never be free..."

The woman fell into her doze once more, and Aminta's scowl turned into a raised-eyebrows look of great confusion. What was so fearful about a face? Scattered pictures floated unbidden through Aminta's brain: a plaster skeleton, a waxy vampire, a hag-

The door swung open, creaking slightly, and Aminta jumped in her chair. It was her father, in a robe that ran in silk rivers down his body. He came towards her, and then noticed Christine. He smiled down at her sleeping form before going to kiss the top of his daughter's head.

"Good night, Aminta. Sleep well." He turned and scooped up his wife gently; he retreated to master bedroom with her.

Aminta sat in the plush chair in her mother's little room for a few minutes, her curiosity suddenly piqued. Her mother's fear gave her little reason for caution; Christine had never been a very rational woman. None of the people she knew would say any more than her Grandmaman had.

A plan formed in her head by means of a fancy golden facade, masquerading masks, and chandeliers. If no one could tell her the facts, then the only way to find them was the source: the Palais du Garnier, the Paris opera house.

Suddenly very determined, Aminta stood and silently made her way to her bedroom. Closing the door so Marie the maid would hear, she moved to her boudoir and rummaged for her tinkering clothes.

Shedding her blue and cream outfit, Aminta pulled a slightly old-fashioned dress over her head. It had once been a crisp white, but now the color was slightly faded. Marie the maid said it now suited her coloring better; the bright whiteness of it had made her look frightening and harsh.

Now, though, she'd worn it through her dusty attics and basements; it was her tinkering dress, and she loved it. It was comfortable, fit well, and the skirt was plenty wide enough for easy movement. Including, Aminta thought with a sly grin, a secret trip to the Opera house.

She then sat on the edge of her bed and pulled on a pair of worn ankle boots that had once been Marie's; the maid had given them to her as a secret gift for her tinkering so her nice shoes wouldn't get disgustingly dirty.

Aminta then swung a dark cloak about her shoulders and pulled it close around her pale dress, bringing the hood down over her hair. In silence, she took a lantern from the side of her bed, put a small packet of matches in her pocket, and took two extra candles.

She slid silently down the wide banister and landed lightly on the marble hall of the foyer before making her way into the deserted kitchen; time had passed, night had fallen, and the servants were all asleep on the third floor. Aminta went out the kitchen door and moved to the street.

She stayed close to the shadows, the lantern hidden in her dark cloak and her hood around her face. The cloak whipped around her, and the streetlamps pinpricked the darkness with ease.

And then, Aminta saw the looming facade of the Opera Garnier before her, the empty windows glaring down into the shadows.


	2. Eyelevel

The Opera Populaire sat in front of her, dark and deserted All the answers to her questions might lie behind the dark wooden doors. Her heart raced, and Aminta suspected it had little to do with the walk she'd just taken.

She stole her way up the stairs, and bit her lip as she took the door-handle, praying that the door wouldn't squeak on its hinges. But her prayers were useless, for the door was locked.

Cursing between her teeth, Aminta moved around the building, testing every window she could reach. One shuddered in its frame, and she heard girlish voices from within. She hid, and the window was opened, and a girl presumably looked out, but did not see Aminta.

Aminta breathed again, and continued around the building. By pure luck, she found an unlocked window after going around two sides of the building.

She eased it open silently, wincing when it gave a slight groan of protest. Obviously, this window was one more often forgotten than not. And it was not a big window, either. Aminta would have to be creative to get inside without getting stuck.

"Here goes," she whispered to the darkness.

With great difficulty, she managed to wiggle her way inside without knocking her head or dropping her lantern. She did, however, let out an 'oomph!' when she had to tumble over her heels to stay in place.

Freezing to the spot, she noticed with some trepidation the shadows that lurked everywhere. She made out wigs, masks, costumes, and trinkets surrounding her. By some stroke of luck, she'd avoided crashing into any of the racks of dresses and suits.

She was eyeing her surroundings when she took a sharp breath. A face was leering her- a goblin! She raced outside and flattened herself against the corridor wall before realizing it must have been a mask.

Aminta rolled her eyes at her foolishness, and bent to the ground to light her lantern.

When she struck the match, shadows suddenly flickered and danced around her, but she ignored them in favor of lighting the candle. She shook the match out and stepped on it with the heel of her boot, making sure the flame was completely gone. Burning down the opera house was not going to get the solution to her questions.

She straightened and looked around her, raising the lantern to eye level. The hall seemed to go on for a while in both directions. Aminta realized she must be on a lower lever, so, picking a random direction, she made her way down the hallway.

After continuing for a short while in this fashion, Aminta realized she had no idea where she was, nor how she had gotten where she was to return to the prop room.

Aminta forced herself to keep going, and repeated phrases in her head.

_Phantom. Erik. Opera. Angel of Music. Phantom. Erik. Opera. Angel of Music. Phantomerikroperangel. _

The shadows came alive as she imagined each was a masked man, waiting for her to make a wrong move. _Waiting, waiting--_ she heard a sound, but dared not turn her head. Her fears consumed her, and she thought she would have been better off not coming at all, considering the ghost was a murderer-- a murderer!

She broke into a run, her face dripping with cold sweat. She heard the sound again, and panicked slightly. The lantern rattled in her hand, and she stopped when she realized it was making a lot of noise. The lantern swung to a halt, the shadows doing tangos around her in the dark hallway.

A full half-minute passed before she realized a door was right next to her; or, more accurately, a set of doors. They were large wooden doors, and the grooves in them cast shadows up and down. Aminta stepped on a loose board, and gasped, nearly beside herself with fear.

She swung her head from side to side, saw nothing, and opened the door to slip inside. The door clicked shut behind her, and the room was lit up dimly by her lantern. Aminta ignored her surroundings to press her ear against the door, straining to hear if she was being followed. But there was no sound.

Silence descended, and she finally turned to look around. There was a wardrobe and a vanity table with a plush seat with a fitted mirror just above the top of the vanity.

By habit, Aminta moved to sit down in the seat. She looked at herself in the mirror mostly by accident; she'd never cared for what she looked like. But as she looked at herself, she realized something.

"God, I'm a mirror image of my mother."

But she froze in the seat when she heard footsteps passing her.

----

When Aminta was fifteen, she attended her first ball.

It was preceded by a failed attempt at running away and also at locking herself in her room for eternity.

Aminta never cared for the company of others; most people were not worth half a second of her time. And of all social events, balls were most certainly the worst. All those layers! The rooms were hotter than a sauna, with everyone swirling around nonstop. Crowds made Aminta crazy.

Yet now, sitting in silence, completely alone except for a possible ghost, she would have given anything to have company. Anything for a comfort in the lurid emptiness.

Aminta felt her eyes dampen, and she raised her face to look up at the dark ceiling to stop any tears from rolling down her cheeks. She would _not_ cry. Not here.

She sniffled to keep her nose from running, and suddenly gasped.

A sound— soft, but steadily rising in volume— filled her ears and pierced her heart. Aminta had never heard anything half so lovely, except her mother's lullabies which she only vaguely remembered. It took her a full minute to realize it was a voice; the beauty of it made her sure it was an angel. Her fears of ghosts and murderers vanished as her eyes involuntarily closed and mouth partly opened to the beauty of the voice.

"Who are you?"

The words fell unbidden from her lips, and she stammered, loathe to interrupt The Voice. But The Voice continued, telling her to come to the mirror, and to Him, the Angel of Music. She quivered with excitement, her eyes opening wide. The Angel of Music! Her mother's angel.

Aminta looked around for the mirror, finally finding it reflecting her dim little lantern that flickered in the heavy air. It stood against the back wall, opposite the door. She felt as though she was in a dream as she stood and moved towards it. She stared into the mirror, looking through the reflection of her eyes into the darkness of the glass.

She saw nothing, but soon, a half-moon of white came into view, followed by the visage of a man in black evening clothes. The half-moon was a mask, obscuring the left side of his face. Aminta's grandmaman's description of the opera ghost flashed into her mind; an alarm went off in her brain, but The Voice was more powerful. That voice was filled with power, filled with beauty; it flooded her mind, washing away all the fears in her heart and mind. He reached out to her, and she reached out to him.

The mirror was forgotten, and their fingers wrapped around the others'. Aminta saw his features clearly now, his straight nose, his passionate mouth, his slim physique. He was no angel, she realized, but a man. Or more accurately a boy, about her age, though he was taller and thinner that most boys she'd been introduced to. His lips curled into a smile, and Aminta stared at him, ignoring the candle-filled corridor he led her through.

There was a mysterious, enigmatic air to him; his voice soared through the damp air, and he would glance back at her every few moments, as though to make certain she wasn't a dream. His eyes burned with a fire as he sang to her. The words were lost to Aminta, but the melody was forever burned into her mind.

Aminta could not say where he was leading her, only that the air grew heavier as they went along, and she felt a slope beneath her feet leading her down, down into the bowels of the opera house. The shadows danced around the strange pair, but Aminta neither feared nor noticed them as his eyes pulled her in.

The aura of his presence— of him— made her unafraid until they reached the shore of an underground lake. The blue-green light of the water sent her plunging back to reality, as did the sudden silence.

He had stopped singing, and released her hand. He knelt to untie a boat, moored at the edge of the water, from its stake. Aminta's old suspicion flooded back without the silencing effect of his music.

"Who are you?" she asked again, this time very aware of what she was asking. He turned his head to look at her, and she almost shivered at his intense gaze.

"Erik."


	3. Confidence

Aminta blinked. Surely she could not have heard right. How on earth could this boy-- this boy with a voice straight from heaven, how could he be the angel, the phantom, and Erik all at once? It was impossible. He was her age; how could he have haunted the Garnier before she was born? Was he really a ghost?

Aminta's eyes widened as she realized she had heard right. He took her hands in his as though reading her thoughts.

"I am Erik," he said, his voice breaking her confidence and barriers. "I am the son of the Phantom." He tilted his head to look at her, his eyes drinking in her face. "Are you-" He stopped, averted his eyes. If not for the dim light, she would have seen a dull flush creep onto his handsome features.

Aminta shook her head slightly to clear the sound of his voice from her ears, recovering from her shock and vague horror after establishing that she was dealing with a boy, a boy her age, and not a murderous apparition whose youth outlasted the boundaries of time. "Am I what?" she snapped, her usual foul mood returning with her confidence.

"Are you Christine Daae?"

She laughed, feeling strangely cruel. "No, you ass, do I look old enough to be your mother? My name is Aminta. _Not_ Christine."

Erik's face soured, and so did his tone. "Well, I apologize, your highness." His voice, which had been captivating and hypnotic, transformed into regular adolescent annoyance. "How is it, then, you look exactly like her?"

Aminta lifted her chin slightly. "She is my mother."

"And let me guess— your _father_ is the Viscomte de Chagny."

"Yes, of course. What's it to you?"

"He is a mockery of a man." Erik laughed, sneering.

Aminta bristled. Her father might be slightly weak in the personality department, but this boy had no right to insult him so.

"Don't you-"

"Dare mock him," Erik finished gleefully, his voice a falsetto to resound high like hers.

Aminta gasped. "Stop-"

"Finishing my sentences?" Erik suggested.

Aminta could only sputter at him, indignant. Her rage was overwhelming; she hated other people having the last word, and that was just what Erik was doing to her. He was mocking her! And who was he, anyway, that he could mock her so? How could he be the same person who took her down through the tunnels, melting away her fears with his song, when now he was spiteful and malicious? Why did he hide behind the mask? Did he have her answers?

Suddenly determined to know the truth, Aminta steeled herself. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Everything. Everything you know about the phantom and the angel of music and the great disaster and my mother and my father and the opera—"

"Stop!" Erik's command was loud and sharp. "Breathe, girl." He reached out to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

Aminta stared at him for the longest moment. Her hands shook a little. All of the things since the beginning of the day seemed to hover around her, dangling her in a spider's web. The action, macabre, fear, discover... it was too much for Aminta. As much as she would have loved to call herself one who endured, she was not.

For the first time since stealing away from the de Chagny's hearth, Aminta's bones felt heavy in their sockets.

As Erik's glowing eyes met hers, Aminta felt her own roll back in her head, feeling herself caught by arms that wrapped around her in a strangling embrace.


	4. Mah bewts!

Yawning, Aminta stretched her arms luxuriously above her head as she shifted into the silken pillows, her dark hair splayed about her like a fan. Even though she knew she was awake, she kept her eyes tightly closed, not wanting to ever move from the sheer comfort she felt. Her bed was more comfortable than usual.

Aminta suddenly realized her bed sheets were linen, not silk, and her eyes popped open.

"Where am I?" she wondered aloud.

Only one candle illuminated the room Aminta was in, and she only saw one door. Her head pounded as she sat up quickly, but she bit her tongue to keep from groaning in pain to go see where the door led.

The door led into an adjoining bathroom with a claw-footed bathtub and toilet, among other things. Aminta cursed loudly.

"Merde!"

"My, my, my, what a wicked mouth you have. Must I wash it out?" someone said. Aminta spun on the spot, her hands curling into fists, as she saw Erik lying back on the bed she'd been in moments before, inspecting his fingers with his legs crossed at the ankles. He had shed his cloak, dress jacket, and vest; now he only wore a white shirt with his black pants and shoes. He raised his eyes to look at her; they sparkled with amusement at her predicament. She looked around the perimeter of the room for how he could have possibly gotten in; there were no other doors!

"Let me out!" Aminta ordered. She realized she wasn't wearing her boots anymore, and cried out in horror. "My boots! Give me back my boots!" She flew to the bedside and rained down on him with her fists. But before she could make contact, Erik had deftly rolled out of the way and onto the other side of the bed, laughing.

"Catch me if you can, little girl," he taunted. Aminta screamed in frustration, her sour mood worsening dramatically. She climbed over the bed and launched herself at Erik, who suddenly pounced and pinned her hands to the bed. She lashed out with her feet instead, and managed to kick him in the stomach. He coughed, retching air, but squeezed her wrists so tightly she cried out.

"I'll never let you leave if you don't keep still," he warned, his fingers biting into her wrists. Aminta nodded, her eyes squeezed shut with pain. Erik took his hands away, and she sat up quickly and slapped him across the unmasked side of his face.

Erik grabbed her shoulders and pushed her flat onto her back, crouching on her legs to keep her from kicking as he took her two hands in one of his. He pinned them above her head, and leaned down until Aminta could feel his warm breath on her face.

"If you ever want to see the light of day again, I suggest you act your age."

"Act my age?" Aminta laughed darkly. "Act my age? I have no idea where on earth I am, and you've just abducted me to your... _lair_ or somewhere. And you never answered my questions!" She scowled deeply at him, her hands still pinned above her head. "And would you mind getting off my legs? You're not exactly weightless, you know." Rolling her eyes, she added, "I won't kick, I promise."

Warily eyeing her, Erik moved off of Aminta's legs. She sighed in relief, half real and half sarcastic.

"So let me get this straight," Erik started. "You want me to answer all of your questions and take you back to the surface—"

"The surface? We're underground?" Aminta interrupted.

Erik continued, ignoring her. "Back to the surface, free to spread my existence to a cruel city? I think not, Madamoiselle _de Chagny_." He spit out her surname with a sneer, and she commenced scowling.

"So I'm basically stuck here?" she said.

"Shhh." Erik frowned at something, apparently thinking.

"Why do you wear that mask?"

Erik gave her a look that spoke of a very slow, painful death, and Aminta quieted. "I will have to trust you," he finally said, sounding very annoyed about his statement. He turned his gaze to her again, and said, "I will tell you under two conditions."

"Ye-es?" Aminta said, after a pause. "What conditions?"

Erik tightened his grip on her wrists, and she whimpered. "First," he said. "Tell _no one_ of this." Aminta nodded, trying not to let the dewdrops of pain in her eyes fall. "And second. You will have to be blindfolded when I bring you back to the surface." His grip tightened until Aminta cried out.

"Fine!"

The pressure on her wrists ceased, and she sighed in relief. When the pain had subsided, she was once again in a foul mood. "I don't know what not to put past you," she snipped. "You abduct me, you lead me somewhere under false pretenses, you hurt a lady-"

"You're no lady."

Aminta could not argue with that, so she humphed and looked away. Erik suddenly stood and moved away from her. She sat up, rubbing her wrists and the back of her neck. "Well, aren't you going to tell me about the phantom and the angel and my parents?" she said sourly.

He glanced at her. "Yes, but you never close your mouth." She wrinkled her nose and crossed her arms. Erik began his story.

---

Perhaps the only times Aminta had felt truly happy being with her parents were when she was still a little girl and they could feel happy telling her stories. Her mother Christine told lovely stories her father had once told her, and her father often knew them and added in details Christine had forgotten.

Aminta never knew which stories were true or not, and she never bothered to ask, preferring not to know, until she was six. Then, she realized all the stories were made up, and found little satisfaction in hearing them anymore. But she still enjoyed remembering the ones she had heard.

Besides her mother and father, Aminta had heard stories from her grandmaman, but those were usually about horrible things from Raoul's childhood and wonderful things about Aminta's two fashionable aunts who were both married young and had perfect children.

The most curious tales she heard were from her maid Marie, who was wistful and liked stories about princesses and faraway kingdoms. Marie's stories had made Aminta sour and she often would snap at Marie for her limited imagination. Marie always replied with that her imagination was good enough for herself, and Aminta didn't need to like it.

Of course, none of the stories from either her parents, grandmaman, or maid could hold a candle to the one Erik was telling her. It was true, and fascinating, and best of all, it was something she'd been trying to learn for the better part of a decade.

It took a long time, Aminta didn't know the times, but she learned of her mother and the prodigal Phantom, Erik's father and namesake, and his obsession with Christine when she had been a young prima donna. He told how his father had taught Christine to sing like an angel, posing as her angel of music that Aminta's grandfather had promised would come.

Erik mentioned, in passing, how one of the lead sopranos, Carlotta, was a horrific woman whose talent didn't come close to Christine and how Christine put up with her splendidly.

He went on to tell of how she performed at the Gala of 1870 and the Phantom's jealousy when she met her childhood friend Raoul once again, and then the ensuing strife as the two had fallen in love. And how, in the end, the Phantom had let Christine go.

Aminta sat quiet for a few moments, frowning slightly, as she digested the history. "But two things haven't been answered," she said soon after Erik had finished. "Why do you wear that mask, and if my mother left your father for my father, where do _you _come from?"

Erik sighed, clearly annoyed. "My father became acquainted with one of your mother's old friends, Meg Giry. She had accidentally stumbled across one of his secret passageways and they met. They were wed, and then a year later she gave birth to me. She died a little after I turned one."

"And the mask? What do you have to hide?" Aminta questioned.

"Family tradition. Like haunting opera houses." Erik's reply was sharp and finite, and he refused any further explanations. Aminta glared at him. She was fed up with people not telling her the whole truth. Hadn't she been through enough half-truths for a lifetime?

"Liar." Aminta's voice oozed with venom.

Erik turned a steely eye on her. "You can't get everything you want, princess," he sneered.

Aminta threw herself to her feet, stomping her foot and fisting her hands at her sides. "I hate you," she declared, and marched up to stand before him before spitting on his shoes.

Erik carefully bent to wipe off the spittle with the cuff of his shirt, then stood back up to look down at her full in the eyes. Hers simmered with loathing, and he smirked.

"You sure as anything didn't when I was singing to you. In fact, I would go as far as saying you were enjoying my valuable company."

She fumed. She was through with unanswered questions, especially from him. If he wouldn't tell her, she'd just have to find her answers for herself. Aminta shot out her hand like lightning and she tore his mask from his face.

Instantly, Aminta wished she hadn't.


	5. Touches

Aminta dimly realized there was a heavy silence lingering in the room even as her heart pounded in her ears. Erik wasn't screaming; he wasn't running. He didn't try to cover his disfigurement that clung like the skin of a dead man to the left side of his face. The mottled purple and yellow of his papery skin blinded Aminta to his other features. How could someone with such ugliness be gifted with any ounce of beauty?

Aminta felt his ugliness nearly like a physical blow. Never had she seen anything half so grotesque in her sheltered, rich world. Only then did she remember her mother's warning.

"_Once you have seen him, you can never be free..."_

But it was too late. Nothing could undo what she had done, what she had seen. A strangled sob escaped her as she collapsed, terrified and queasy, to the floor. She could not bear to look at him any longer; surely she would die from the sight.

Only a few moments passed before she felt, rather than heard, Erik coming to kneel before her. She fixed her eyes on his black shoes; he reached out a hand, the one Aminta had so readily taken only mere hours before. But now, she quailed from his prospective touch, Erik's mask shuddering in her strangling grasp.

Erik lowered his hand to his side, his mouth thinning and guilt spreading on his blemished face. He did not move, but Aminta fancied he was raging at her in his mind. It was easier to think of him angry rather than docile, or pitying.

"You should have listened to me. You would have known this would happen."

A deep voice, resonating beautifully, sounded from somewhere. Aminta's eyes moved around Erik to see a tall, black-clad gentleman with an identical half-mask to Erik's. He stood in the threshold of a door that was hidden to the inside of the room. The man could only be Erik's father, the real phantom. Aminta shuddered, and quickly looked away when he turned his gaze to hers.

"Take your mask. I will return her to the surface. They are searching for her."

Erik gently took his mask from between Aminta's fingers, keeping them from touching his hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered to her, reaching out to touch her cheek, hesitantly, after he had replaced the mask over his disfigurement. At his touch, Aminta's eyes rolled back into her head and she slumped forward onto the floor, her cheek pressed against Erik's knee.

"I didn't want you to see this, Aminta," Erik continued, thinking she was only crying. But when she did not move, he cried out her name. Had seeing his face caused her heart to stop, as rumors said?

"No need to worry," Erik's father said. "She has merely fainted. That happens frequently to women around us, you see. She will wake up soon."

Erik reached out with a shaking hand to brush hair off of Aminta's cheek. "I didn't mean to—"

"I know you didn't mean to, but you did. Do you see now why I warned you against this exact sort of thing? Women cause pain more than happiness. Don't expect any less of them."

"But Father, I saw her, and she looked exactly like Christine, and I thought—"

"You couldn't resist a romantic adventure?" The younger Erik flushed. "I was like you once, desperate to have Christine, and you see where it led me? Forget love," Erik's father said. "It causes only heartache."

"I thought she would be different."

"They are never different," his father vowed.

---

In the first seventeen years of her life, Aminta prided herself on the fact that she'd never been stung by a bee or any other insect, had never broken a bone, and had never fainted. She had only sprained her ankle once, she'd never dislocated any joints, and she never had half as many nightmares as her mother supposedly did.

Of course, Aminta was too reckless to be as afraid as her timid mother. She had never seen true horror, never seen death, never seen a corpse. Her mind had never been under the control of a madman. Granted, Aminta only realized this as she woke. She realized she wasn't waking where she had fainted for the second time in just a few hours.

Her back was pressed against cold glass, and her neck was stiff and aching. She rolled her head around on her neck to ease the discomfort. Her boots were back on her feet, her cloak was wrapped around her, and her hair was tied back from her face.

Aminta frowned as she pulled away the ribbon from her hair, scowling as she saw it was black. But she suddenly tore her gaze from the ribbon as she heard footsteps and frenzied voices in the hall outside of the door. She realized it was the same dressing room she had first encountered Erik in.

"Comtess, are you sure she came here?"

"Yes! There can be nowhere else." Aminta recognized her mother's voice, which she realized was beautiful even in distress. "She had forever been curious about the phantom of the opera, monsieur. I can only pray no harm has come to her!"

"Maman? Maman!"

Aminta sprang to her feet and moved to the door, far from the mirror and those unseen eyes she knew watched her. She pushed open the door, her head suddenly pounding with a splintering headache.

"Aminta!" Christine embraced her daughter, kissing Aminta's cheeks and forehead. "Oh, _ma cherie_, thank God you are safe. But how could you have been in that room? We looked there before— _twice_!" Christine moved back to look in her daughter's eyes.

No more words needed to be said. Aminta's eyes told the whole story, for Christine immediately saw the terror and pity that she once had in her eyes, after seeing the first Erik twenty years before.

Aminta felt her eyes growing damp as her mother drew her close again, stroking her hair. "You are safe, _ma cherie_. We will talk, at home." Aminta nodded against her mother's shoulder, too weak to do any more.

---

Aminta left soon after, her mother and father with her. The comtess's arm wrapped around her daughter, and the comte walked a little ahead of the two women, looking back every few moments as if to make sure they were still there.

Only the three de Chagny's and the figure watching them from dozens of feet above knew why he feared them disappearing.

Erik stared at Aminta almost without blinking even as a chill wind whipped past him, tossing his dark hair about carelessly. She shrank into her mother's hold, seeming strangely fragile. He smiled slightly, remembering her vicious violence as she fought him before she'd seen him.

His smile disappeared, and he could have sworn she looked up at him, but it could have been her mother. He forgot which was who; they looked so much more alike in person than in the pictures. And Christine was still beautiful, even though she was almost forty now. He had heard her speak; even in distress her voice was as beautiful as his father said.

Erik had gone with his father to bring back Aminta to the surface. His father had instantly returned to their underground home, but Erik had stayed, curious and slightly obsessing about Aminta. He had put her boots back on her, and he had ran his hand across her smooth cheek, feeling selfish.

Aminta had gone to her mother, and then left shortly afterwards. Despite her hasty retreat from Erik's terrain, he knew he had not seen the last of Aminta de Chagny.

She would come again, and he knew he would be ready for her.


	6. Gentlemen Prefer

Straining her ears, Aminta furrowed her eyebrows as she tried to hear what her parents and Grandmaman were talking about. Eavesdropping was her greatest forte, though she rarely had to eavesdrop on her grandmaman. But ever since Christine had found her at the Palais du Garnier, Aminta hadn't seen her for more than two minutes at a time. She had a strong suspicion her parents were trying to keep Grandmaman from finding out she'd snuck out at night, but whatever the reason, she wanted to know what they were up to.

At least Grandmaman had to realize something was up. Despite her snobby manner, the old woman loved berating her granddaughter. Aminta had a strong suspicion nothing gave the crone more pleasure that humiliating her. And if Christine and Raoul were suddenly keeping their daughter out of her sight...

Well, Aminta was almost certain Grandmaman would find out sooner or later.

She shrugged and concentrated on eavesdropping. She could just barely make out what her parents and grandmother were talking about.

"... masquerade ball," Aminta heard Grandmaman say.

"At the opera?" Christine sounded nervous, to say the least, and Aminta completely understood why. Two madmen lived there, and two generations of de Chagny women had been held down in their lair against their will.

Grandmaman continued. "Of course," she scoffed. "One of my friends, the Duchesse de Caraman, has a young nephew who has been inquiring after your daughter. He has been very eager to make her acquaintance. Clearly, he's not heard of her horrible character." She sniffed. "The duchesse and her nephew are attending the masquerade, and they have extended invitation to all three of you. You would be fools to refuse. Besides, being out in society will do that little horror of yours a great deal of good."

Aminta's mouth was a thin line as her father spoke rather uncertainly to her mother.

"Christine, Aminta does need to learn how to be a young lady. And this is a perfect opportunity for her to make her way into society."

"Raoul," Christine said. Aminta was sure her eyes must be wide and pleading, and her mouth slightly open.

"_Ma cherie_, you have to move past your fear eventually."

Christine sighed. "Very well."

"Excellent." Grandmaman rose, and Aminta fled as she heard her grandmaman's skirts rustling.

---

Aminta's room in the de Chagny's Paris apartment was lavish, like the rest of the place. The bed was big, the sheets were soft, and the covers were beautiful. At least Marie the maid thought they were beautiful. Aminta didn't care much for admiring quilts. She much preferred wandering around the house.

Or, if it was brisk outside, Aminta would sit in the window seat that nestled in an alcove in her room and press her forehead against the chill glass, her breath steaming the window. If her mother came in, she'd often get scolded for giving herself a potential cold.

Frankly, a cold was worth the acute reality that came with the chilly glass.

Thus, after racing away from the closed door of the parlor, Aminta came to her window seat and put her head against the window. The window misted over, and she bit her lip in trepidation.

So she was being forced to go to the opera house. Aminta snorted as she realized only a month ago, before her little escapade there, she'd be jumping for joy to get there. But now, she was only worried.

What if Erik was there? His face still haunted her, and for a week after returning from the Garnier, she'd woken in the night drenched in cold sweat with the sheets tangled around her and Erik's ghastly visage burning her eyelids.

Yet after she had calmed from her nightmares, his voice had come, unbidden, into her head. How could he be so bad, if he made such beautiful music? Was he really a monster, or was he just like all the other boys she'd met? Granted, he had a lot more wit and charisma than the other young men she'd been forced to associate with. Not to mention his humor, even if he'd used it to annoy her.

Aminta sighed heavily against the window. Was he playing with her mind? Would she ever be able to forget him, or had he imprinted himself in her head forever?

As Aminta made swirls in the steamy surface of the window, a shocking realization hit her. She didn't _want_ to forget him. Even though he was one of the most confusing, insulting people she'd ever met, she couldn't help but remember the attraction she'd felt when she first saw him in the mirror, in all his phantomesque glory.

Whenever she recalled how he'd looked back at her, a smile tugging at his lips, Aminta felt drawn to the Palais du Garnier, and the mirror, and, in the end, to Erik. Even after rationalizing her fear for him and his murderous father, she couldn't help but feel pulled to him.

Erik was everything that frightened her and everything that attracted her. In the end, it all came down to one question.

Was he angel, or demon?

---

Erik watched from a grate in the ceiling as the manager of the Garnier looked over the list of people attending the bal masque, his young secretary standing in front of his desk with her hands clasped before her.

"I cannot read through all of this now, Madamoiselle Clement," the manager said. "I will review it tomorrow."

"As you wish, monsieur." Mlle Clement seemed to recall something. "Ah yes. The Duchesse de Caraman and her nephew have requested to extend their invitation to the Comte de Chagny and his family, and I acquiesced. Is this all right with you, monsieur?"

"Of course," the manager said. "Who will the comte bring?"

"His wife and daughter, monsieur."

Erik heard no more of the conversation, for upon hearing the comte would be bringing his daughter, he had smiled widely and departed from his perch. He knew exactly what _his_ costume would be.

---

Marie, Aminta's maid and boot benefactor, was tying Aminta's corset.

"Breathe in more," she urged. Aminta growled at her, annoyed beyond compare at having to wear such an annoying contraption. Fearing violence, Marie quickly tied the corset as it was.

"Thank God," Aminta muttered, breathing heavily. Her chest heaved with each attempt to fill her lungs. "Marie, I can barely breathe in this! Loosen it immediately!"

"Your grandmother said you need to be as fashionable as possible, madamoiselle, and that otherwise you'll frighten everyone away."

Aminta snorted. Some things would never change. "If I don't wear this thing, will I still have to go?"

"Oui."

Grinding her teeth, Aminta let Marie put on petticoats for her. "What am I supposed to be when you finish with me, anyway?"

Marie fetched a white gown and held it up for Aminta to see. "An angel, madamoiselle. You'll certainly have to pretend to be one of those," she joked. Aminta stuck out her tongue and raised her arms, feeling the dress slide over her.

Aminta wrinkled her nose as she realized the dress had been sprayed with perfume. A perfume that smelled like roses, no less. Aminta had a vague desire to be allergic.

"You do look the part, madamoiselle," Marie said. "Let me do your hair and rouge."

---

Marie had spent the better part of an hour making Aminta look, as the maid had said, like a heavenly being. Aminta thought she looked like a puppet, or perhaps a made-up prostitute. But honestly, there wasn't much difference between prostitutes and high-class women, except men became rich when they copulated with the latter.

So as Aminta alighted from her family's carriage, marked with the de Chagny seal, she felt particularly devilish. What she wouldn't give to be dropping a million chandeliers...

But she snapped back to reality when the fireworks started, startling her and her mother. Her father laughed and took the two of them on either arm, leading them into the opera.

Raoul de Chagny was dressed like a knight, and Christine had donned a tall, pointed cap ending in a flowing of lace to be a medieval maiden. She looked about ten years younger than she was, Aminta thought.

Out of the three of them, Aminta was the only one with a mask. Hers was small and white, and only covered the area around her eyes and a little bit of her cheeks. Stiff white feathers held her hair back, and it fell in dark curls down her back. Two downy wings were sewn into the back of her dress.

Grandmaman, dressed as an empress, descended on them quickly, and eyed Aminta critically. She sniffed and gave no comment, instead turning to her son and daughter-in-law.

Aminta breathed as best she could in her corset, fanning herself with her hand. Everything was so hot, and bright! All of the swirling colors from the dancing area gave her a headache, so she turned away and closed her eyes.

"Comtess de Chagny!" Aminta turned to see a young man, dressed as a lion, approaching her grandmaman with another older woman, who kissed Grandmaman's cheeks. It could only be the Duchesse de Caraman and her nephew, and Aminta groaned slightly and turned away.

"Good evening, duchesse, Monsieur Riquet." Grandmaman was using her pleasant voice, one she never used with Aminta. "May I introduce my son, Raoul, and his wife Christine." Raoul kissed the duchesse's hand, and Christine curtseyed politely. "And this is my lovely granddaughter, Aminta de Chagny."

Aminta turned at her name to see the young man, Monsieur Riquet, coming to kiss her hand. She obliged him in order to stay out of the way of Grandmaman's wrath, trying not to gag all the while. Why hadn't she worn gloves again?

Monsieur Riquet did not drop her hand immediately after rising from kissing it. "Madamoiselle, may I claim your hand for the next dance?"

Aminta glanced over at her grandmother, who was giving her the evil eye. "Fine."

Riquet began to talk with her father about business and the weather and such as the current song finished, and Christine fell back to talk with her ill-tempered daughter. "Aminta, please do not be so rude," she said. "Riquet seems to be a perfect gentleman."

The music glided to an end, and Aminta scowled at her earnest mother. "Maman, maybe I don't want a gentleman," she retorted. Riquet came and offered her his arm, and she took it with great reserve.

---

Aminta had been tutored by seven different governesses in her youth. Only three things were similar throughout. First, they all left soon after arriving. Second, they were all women who smiled at her father too much. Third, they all made sure she would never, ever forget how to dance.

Aminta hated dancing. She thought it should only be done with someone you liked, because there was no point in wasting time in the arms of someone you didn't respect.

And she'd been forced to dance at least three times weekly with her governess of the moment, learning how to do about a billion types of dances. Some were easier to learn than others.

Slow waltzes were the easiest, since the only thing she had to do was go one-two-three over and over in her head and move mechanically. There was no way to make it any more exciting or less dull, so she learned her slow waltz spectacularly.

Unfortunately, the dance Riquet was leading her into now was a slow waltz. She moved mechanically as he took one of her hands and put the other on her waist, holding her a little too close for comfort.

One_-two-three, _one_-two-three..._

Riquet didn't seem to realize Aminta would have been happier cleaning the stairs, for he was gazing at her as he spoke in a monotone. She managed to realize he was talking about matters of state, or something like that, before her mind wandered off, only coming back when Riquet stepped on her foot. Again.

She nodded occasionally and let her eyes drift around the room, observing the costumes of the other dancers. They were all elaborate; Aminta almost laughed aloud when she saw someone dressed as a pirate dancing with a deer. Ridiculous, and somewhat amusing.

But soon, the colors gave her a headache, and as the song ended, she hoped Riquet would take her to sit down. But he didn't for another song had begun, this one a little more lively, and he swept her up into the music again, still watching her raptly.

Aminta pulled her eyes oh so difficultly from his masked visage and looked around the room for her parents. It was then that she saw him.

A young man in red, his costume well-fitting and dangerous, stood watching her and Riquet. His mask covered most of his face, save his lips and jaw, and the uncovered area around his eyes was colored black. Aminta realized his mask had a texture like an old, cracked skull, and his blackened eyes gave the impression of empty sockets. The outfit frightened her and intrigued her. The story of the Phantom's Red Death costume from two decades ago came back to her.

The angel's eyes met those of Red Death, and Aminta gasped.

It was Erik.


	7. Bites and Dukes

Aminta turned to look at Riquet, who was still chattering on, thinking she was listening. He hadn't seen Erik, that was for sure. Even with the mask, he was unforgettable. And Aminta was sure Riquet had never seen anything remotely frightening, and Erik as Red Death was exactly that.

Grisly. Ghastly. Grim.

Adjectives ran through her head as she realized Erik was moving: moving towards her! From her angle, she knew Riquet could not see him. Aminta felt herself quake under his gaze, and she felt both horrified and delighted he was there. She still didn't know what to think of him.

Erik moved through the crowd easily, almost as if people parted to let him through. They probably did, Aminta realized; she knew they would never want to be in his way. Riquet still didn't see Red Death, and Aminta wondered what his expression would be like when he saw Erik.

And then Erik was there, and he placed a gloved hand on Aminta's arm.

Gasping, she pulled away, both from Erik and from Riquet, who had gasped also and now frowned at Erik, still startled at his appearance. "If you will excuse us, monsieur!" he snapped, reached out to Aminta, who stared at his hand.

Erik spoke before she could. "You have had the pleasantly attentive company of Madamoiselle de Chagny for two dances now, monsieur." Aminta heard his sarcasm and biting scorn, but she did not look at him; as much as she wanted to, it would bring about death by her grandmaman should she make a scene. "It would wag tongues if you did not share." And with that, he, too, extended his hand to Aminta, daring her to refuse him.

Aminta snapped her eyes to his, and he drew her in with a small smile.

Effectively abandoning Riquet, Aminta placed her hand in Erik's, and he placed his other hand on her corseted waist just as another song began; he whisked her away from Riquet and danced with her.

Erik held Aminta gently, her pale hand within his black gloved one. He spun her with ease; it was clear he had had much more practice at dance than she. Either that, or he was a natural. He did not step on her feet at all.

Feeling his gaze on her face, Aminta looked up, glowering at him. He gave a slight smile, but she had a feeling it was more of a smirk than anything.

"It has been so long since we last saw each other, has it not, Aminta? I have missed you," Erik said.

Aminta stared at him for a moment. He was speaking like they had known each other for years, and yet she'd only met him once. Not to mentioned she had fainted twice in his presence. Recalling that, Aminta's cheeks grew rosy and she looked away from his burning gaze.

Erik chuckled. "I see you are so smitten with your sweet Erik that you have become lost for words!" Her face changed from confusion to indignation. "Do not worry, my dear, for who could blame you for being so taken with such a handsome, charming man?"

"You tell yourself that, lover boy," she hissed. Unable to help herself, she stamped on his foot, making him wince. His eyes found something over her shoulder, and he stilled.

"Come, my feisty one, before your poor excuse of a father comes to interrupt our reunion." He took his hand from her waist, and she thought she saw a whisper of regret in his eyes, but he grasped her hand all the tighter to pull her along.

Aminta realized she would have gone with him willingly, and she skipped a little to keep up so as not to trip on her uncomfortable dress. She glanced behind her to see her father and Riquet moving through the crowd towards them, struggling to reach her. Aminta saw her mother staring worriedly at her, so she turned back to watch Erik's back as he took her through a small doorway into a deserted corridor.

"Where are we going?" she snapped, wondering why she was so eager to follow him.

"Somewhere your king of the jungle won't be." Aminta raised her eyebrow; Riquet was not hers, nor did she want him to be. He was too much of a gentleman, just like she had quipped at her mother before she'd gone off to dance with him.

As he led her slowly through more corridors, Aminta realized she didn't want a gentleman at all. She was too wild, too free to appreciate the security those highbred boys offered.

And what did Erik offer?

A frightful visage, inhuman physical force, a fearful temper.

A heavenly voice, an enigmatic mystery, a passionate mouth—

_God, why did I think of _that Aminta blushed spectacularly just as Erik came to an abrupt halt and turned to look at her. He almost laughed at her pink face as he pressed a finger to her lips. She had half a mind to bite him, hard. But footsteps nearby silenced that urge.

"Are you certain they came this way?" It was her father, and Aminta knew he was talking to Riquet.

The duke's indignant voice rose in volume, coming closer, as he said, "Of course, viscomte. I know the masked marauder took her this way."

Aminta glanced at Erik to see how he reacted only to see him smirking as the wall behind them disappeared. Aminta took this opportunity to bite his finger, hard. Wincing, he pulled her back with him into the passage, which immediately shut behind them. Erik had pulled her back close to him, and Aminta felt the heat radiating from his body as the footsteps and their pursuers passed by their hiding spot. Even after all was silent save for their breathing, they were still for a few moments.

The short seconds standing still with Erik just behind her made her feel strangely peaceful and safe; his hand came to rest on her arm in the darkness and then he ran his fingers down it until he came to her hand.

The sensation of his fingertips running down her arm, just barely brushing her, made her tingle in anticipation.

But Erik merely began to walk in the darkness, leading her to a set of stairs illuminated by a series of candelabras. They ascended in silence, disturbing thoughts racing through Aminta's mind. Was she beginning to _like_ this creature?

She shook her head slightly; he was human just like her, that much she knew he deserved. He certainly brought their species to greater heights than she, that was for sure.

He made sounds sprung from heaven, and she? Well, she made trouble.

---

After a few minutes, just after Aminta's legs had begun to hurt, Erik paused to peer out of climbing through a tiny crack in the wall. He pushed on a rock and led Aminta out into a small room, the wall sliding back behind them, and then through another door, where the chilly air bit Aminta's bare arms.

Erik moved away from her, back into the room, where he took a thick, warm cloak and draped it around her shoulders, his hands resting there for a moment after she had tucked the dark material around herself.

"An adventure for my angel," he said in her ear. "We are closer to the heavens now." Aminta stiffened slightly, and he pulled away.

"Quite," she got out. "Your- your foresight is admirable." They were on the roof of the Garnier, where her parents had been years before with Erik's father secretly wallowing in anguish, listening to their vows of love.

Aminta moved out onto the roof, the snow crunching a bit under her feet, and ran her hands over the statues. Horses, angels, and gods surrounded her; she felt above the clouds as she approached a statue of Apollo. A light, chilling wind played with her hair, and then she realized Erik was playing with her hair as well.

Jumping slightly, she spun to face him, sputtering since she had neither seen nor heard him approach her. But she slid on the slick roof, and cried out as she fell.

An arm unexpectedly latched around her waist and another held onto her arm, and Erik caught her in an awkward dip. He straightened her up and took his arm from her waist, and he kept a hold on her arm.

"Don't fall," he warned, but his eyes sparkled at her.

Aminta harrumphed. Everything that happened when he was around was so awkward, almost romantic in a way. But how could someone like him be romantic? Aminta blew out a breath through her lips, and Erik seemed to notice her racing mind for he began to sing.

Not taking his eyes from hers, Erik helped Aminta to sit at Apollo's feet, and he knelt before her, her hands in his gloved ones. She stared at him, realizing what he was doing, but his music won.

The song was different than the one he had sung when taking her down to his lair, but it was no less haunting or beautiful. Aminta felt it touch her soul, and she breathed in the cold air to keep from drowning in it.

Her eyes closed in bliss, and Erik moved next to her. She turned so her back was to his side, and leaned against him. Erik turned as well and wrapped his arms and cloak around her. Aminta closed her eyes, all thoughts flying from her mind except the sound of his voice.

Erik's music soared to the heavens on the frozen wind.


End file.
